Reality Issues
by Clara Stone
Summary: Christine is torn between reality and a dream, one where she is married to Raoul and the other where she is married to Erik. CHAPTER TEN FINALLY She's back at Erik's, and determined to make them both happy
1. A Life Less Ordinary

Disclaimer: I do not own _Phantom of the Opera_ or any of its characters. Hey-does any one else think that we should just put one big disclaimer on the page? I mean, we can be pretty sure that no one posting on fanfiction.net owns any of the characters in their stories (well, except for their own characters, but they could write that at the top of their stories!). I mean, if we were posting on myfiction.net we could be sure that we all owned our own characters, but… Oh whatever. Well, I don't own anything.

A/N: Hey everyone! This is the first two chapters of my story! Thanks for reading (which I assume you're about to do if you're reading this). Okay, my story begins three years after the events of the _original_ novel. The only differences are that Erik has the half-mask from the musical (don't ask me why I decided to do that for this story, but it just works better) and I'm probably going to bring Nadir into the story in a couple of chapters. Nadir belongs to Susan Kay (for, you know, the two of you who didn't already know that!) Okay, thanks again! Enjoy and please review!

Reality Issues

Chapter One: A Life Less Ordinary

© © © 

Christine bowed yet again, alone, center stage. A stagehand brought on another bouquet of flowers; she already held so many that her face was buried. Helpfully, he took two of the bouquets from her and stepped aside. She bowed her head and, when she raised it, lifted her free hand to silence the audience. 

Their applause died down quickly after this signal; they knew the soprano wished to speak to them and were eager to hear what she had to say. It was a full house on this night; the Opera was packed from wall to wall with delighted men and women, a sea of bows and frills, silk and feathers, top hats and tails. 

"Thank you," Christine said, her voice flowing effortlessly to the farthest corner of the auditorium, "Thank you all so very much. I just want to take this moment to show my gratitude to you, my public, for being so wonderful. And I would also like to thank the most important person in my life. He constantly supports me and encourages me and teaches me new things everyday—my husband."

And as the applause rang out once again, Christine turned her head to look offstage and smiled at the gentleman waiting there. The gentleman with the mask…

"Christine…" he whispered.

* * * 

Christine sat up with a start. 

Her knitting needles fell to the floor with a clatter, but she didn't hear it.

She looked around. A red, woolen rung lay beneath her feet. The deep green of her dress clashed furiously with the navy cushion of the chair she sat in. Her small hands clutched the wooden arms tensely. A small couch rested next to her chair, in front of that a short table. The colorless walls were bare, excluding the curtain over the one, small window. 

Christine slouched back into her chair; it had all been a dream. 

But how could it have been? Her hands still trembled as they only shook after she had been onstage. She could still smell the bouquets of roses. And she could still hear his voice, clearer than she could hear her own heavy breathing.

With a sigh, she bent down and picked up the fallen items. Her senses were beginning to come back to her, one at a time. She could smell fish burning somewhere in the house. And she heard her name being spoken aloud by a different man's voice. 

Raoul casually entered the room. "Darling," he said, smiling, "are you all right? I heard a something fall."

"Yes, I'm fine. I was resting."

Raoul nodded in response. "Well, let's go stop that fish from burning. The sooner we eat, the sooner you can sleep." He helped her out of her chair and together they went into the kitchen.

It was not a good day for Raoul. He did not bring in many fish that morning. Being a fisherman was not very rewarding. Raoul had discovered fishing three years ago, after he was disinherited. The Chagnys did not think it was respectable for one of their own to marry a singer. So they cut him off and refused to see him when he called. Thus, he and Christine left Paris, poor and alone. Having been brought up a gentleman, Raoul had no skill to use as a profession. Yet he found fishing would suffice and so they moved to a small village near the sea, where he could fish. Every morning he joined three other fishermen on a boat on their boat. It was Raoul's job to watch the nets and the hooks. He helped the others pull up the nets and bring them into market, where they would sell them. Christine, shortly after they arrived, allied herself with a tailor in town. She was given a home sewing machine (one of the new ones, just brought over from America) and was sent orders directly to her house. They made just enough to live on and hardly anything more. 

That night they ate their meal quietly. Christine hardly ate anything at all; her mind was consumed with thoughts of Erik. In her dream, she was sublimely happy—she could feel the happiness. It was like a presence in that dream, as clear as the smell of the flowers, or the sound of the applause. Not to say she wasn't happy with Raoul; she was. Well, if she had to be honest, she was content at least. He was a good man, Raoul; he worked hard and meant to please her.

Not to say he never pleased her, either. There were many pleasurable moments spent in marital bliss. But she couldn't be happy in this normal existence. It was odd: three years ago Christine had prayed for a normal life, and now that she had one, she yearned for something more.

"Darling," Raoul said, calling her attention to him, "You seem tense."

"Do I, Raoul?" Christine asked, distracted.

"Come," he said, standing up and extending his hand towards her, "I know what will relax you." With a forced smile she gave him her hand and let him lead her upstairs.

They made love mechanically and afterwards, alone on one side of the bed, Christine cried silent tears of regret. How had she let this happen to her life? Perhaps she deserved this. Think of all those horrible things she did to Erik! Maybe if she had been wiser three years ago she could be feeling that true happiness from the dream. Eventually, her weeping carried her to sleep, her eyes finally closing over one last tear.

© © © 

And when she opened her eyes a moment later that same, last tear slid down her cheek. The tear was the same, but the room was different. She was no longer on her bed in the small cottage, but on a couch in her old dressing room! Yes, she was sure of it. There was the same faded wallpaper, and the small dressing table and…oh! The mirror! The mirror with the beautiful voice behind it…the voice that was speaking to her now…

"Christine? My dear, how do you feel?" Yes it was Erik—who else would call her 'my dear'? 

She tried to sit up, but a sudden pain struck her head like a bolt of lightning. She cried out in pain and two hands gently guided her down again.

"Erik?" Christine asked, more for assurance than for acknowledgement.

"Hush, child, I'm here." Christine blinked hard to force her vision to clear. When it did, she saw before her Erik, her long-lost Angel, no longer just a voice. He grinned down at her as their eyes met; even his half-mask seemed to smile a white glow.

"What…what happened?" she stuttered.

"You fainted, my love," he replied, tenderly brushing a curl away off her forehead. She shivered from the contact, his touch cold, yet somehow comforting. "After the performance… Which, by the way, was a complete success! Christine, the web you spun around that audience! Why even I almost…"

__

What performance? she thought, _Oh, the dream! So that means this must be a dream too…_

"Christine?"

__

But how I wish it wasn't!

"Christine, is anything wrong?" 

"What? Oh no, Erik. I'm…" she was interrupted by another strike of the splitting pain in her head. _This doesn't make any sense! Dreams aren't supposed to hurt!_ Christine thought as she clutched Erik's lapel while the pain continued to sear through her head.

Erik stroked her hair gently until the pain subsided, when he simply said, "Let's go home."

Christine looked deeply into his eyes, sparking into hers, and smiled back in the moment before the pain struck again.


	2. An Odd Occurrence

Disclaimer: I do not own POTO.

A/N: Okay, hopefully no one fell asleep during the first chapter. I think that the second one's better. There's a small twist in the end of this chapter that I know a lot of phans will be pleased about. 

Chapter Two: An Odd Occurrence

* * * 

Christine opened her eyes to find herself in bed again. Beside her Raoul turned over harshly, shaking the bed and causing the headboard to bang against Christine's head. _Well, that accounts for the pain…_ she thought, sitting up. The grandfather clock in the hall chimed four times.

"Raoul," she called, "you should get up now. The boat will be leaving soon."

Her husband groaned loudly but nevertheless sat up and swung his feet over the side of the bed. Christine slunk back down into bed, ready to return to her dream now that her headache had been taken care of. But Raoul saw this and made a disapproving face.

"Now, Christine, none of that. You know the agreement we made when we first got married: when I go to work, so do you." Raoul pointed sternly to her sewing machine in the corner.

"Very well," she sighed, knowing that she would rather not have an argument this early in the morning. If she had to get up, she did not want to fight.

For a few hours, Christine sewed steadily until her thoughts drifted back to Erik. She wondered what he was doing now, or whether or not he was alive, for that matter. When she left he was so distraught…

Christine turned her head. The bed against the opposing wall looked quite appealing. She could just go to sleep for a little while… Raoul wouldn't be home for hours and she had already finished the sewing for the day. There was nothing more for her to do until Raoul could come home and take the garments to the shop in the center of town. And perhaps sleep would bring her back to Erik, so that she may talk with him again. She missed their conversations greatly; talking with Raoul was nothing like talking with Erik. _But perhaps that was unfair… After all,_ Christine mused,_ Raoul was brought up not knowing anything and Erik knew…well, everything!_

Yes, a little rest couldn't hurt. And besides, didn't she owe that much to Erik…to his memory? If he couldn't have her, he could at least have her dreams. She didn't mind in the least…

© © © 

The next thing she knew, she was lying in the center of a large, soft bed, as familiar to her as her own thumb. The room was as it ever was; the small writing table still stood beside the bed; the marble walls of the bathroom poked out of the open door. Everything was precisely as she remembered it. Well, with the exception of that wardrobe. Her old one was neither so tall nor so broad.

Christine got out of bed and opened its doors out of curiosity. She was both surprised and confused to find not only clothes for her inside but also Erik's clothes. With wrinkled brow she shut the door to the wardrobe. It was then, for the first time, she noticed the plain gold wedding band on her finger.

__

Of course, that makes sense! Christine thought, remembering her initial dream, when she called Erik her husband. That is why they shared a closet. How odd that she didn't remember…

"Christine?"

Christine's heart nearly jumped out of her chest. She hadn't heard Erik enter the room. But he had, carrying a tray with a tea set. He laughed outright at her surprise, his voice forming a string of pitches, which almost seemed to be a song.

"Did I startle you, my dear?" he sang through his laughter. Christine could feel her face turn scarlet. "Oh, now I've both startled and embarrassed you! What kind of husband am I?" Erik took her gently by the elbow and walked her back to the bed. "Now get back into bed before you catch a cold as well."

Christine lifted up the sheet and sat against the headboard as Erik placed the tray on her lap and poured her some tea.

"Careful," he warned, pulling a chair beside the bed. "It's hot." She slowly brought the cup to her lips and took a small sip, although she wasn't thirsty, just to be polite to Erik. She had other things on her mind.

She placed the cup on the tray and looked him squarely in the eyes. His lips were turned slightly upwards on the good side of his face. "So," she said, "you and I, we're married, right?"

The room echoed with the roars of his laughter. He tossed his head back in a howl, and when he brought it back straight, said, "Yes, I believe so."

__

He seems different, she thought, _happier._ "When?"

His eyes sparkled in amusement and he bit his lip to stop another outburst. When he had controlled himself, he replied, "Three days ago it was a year and seven months."

"How was the ceremony?"

"Beautiful. Well…no… It rained for nearly a week before and all the way up to when we walked in the church. But by the time the ceremony was over the sun was shinning again."

It was Christine's turn to laugh. "You're lying!"

"I would never!" She frowned at him. "Well, maybe once or twice." He grinned at her and she returned it. "My dear, you seem better." 

"Yes, Erik."

"But don't think that just because you convinced me you're better I'm going to let you sing tonight. You need your rest." He took one of her ringlets and began curling the long blonde piece of hair around his index finger. "You can't have another fainting spell. I don't know if your head can withstand another fall. I don't know if my heart can withstand it either."

__

No, she thought, _he hasn't changed. He's still the same man he was three years ago. I just never gave him the confidence he needed to talk to me like this._ Suddenly she had the greatest urge to take off his mask. She was hesitant to though; she remembered all too clearly what happened the last time she did. And yet, things were different now. They were married. She had surely seen…more of him than just his face.

So with a steady hand she unveiled her husband and looked upon his naked face for the first time in three years. Yet the horror of his face was nothing in comparison to the pain in his eyes at the thought of losing her. And Christine felt pain at the thought of hurting him, both now and so long ago. With a sob, she pressed her cheek against his scarred one. They remained like that for a few minutes until her sobbing had ceased and after that he held her against his chest until her crying had stopped also.

Erik was the first to break the embrace; Christine followed suit and sat back up.

"You should sleep, my love," he whispered, and with trembling lips kissed her forehead. Christine's skin tingled at the place of contact, but it wasn't an unpleasant feeling. No, not at all.

She nodded in response to him, her husband, Erik, and slid down under the covers. Erik tucked the blanket around her and squeezed her hand, turning to leave with the tea.

"Erik," she called, "I have one more question."

"I hope this one's as entertaining as the others," he said softly while replacing the mask.

"Where's Raoul?" Christine asked boldly, though flinching at the thought of what Erik would do when she said the name of his enemy.

"Raoul?" he asked, confused. Christine nodded. "My dear, I've never known anyone named Raoul." He gave her a puzzled look but, having nothing else to say, gave her a small smile and left the room.

__

What? Christine thought, completely stupefied. _He doesn't know Raoul! He wouldn't lie to me now… And I can tell from his face (or half of it) that he truly had no idea who I was talking about. How odd. But then if Raoul and Erik never met…_

Christine could not even finish her thought before a deep sleep came over her and her eyes, almost unwillingly, closed.


	3. A Talk With Husband 1

Disclaimer: I don't own POTO or any of the characters. Yadda, yadda, yadda… Oh yes, there's one line in here that belongs to the Walt Disney Company. I'm pretty sure every single person will be able to easily pick it out. I put it because…well, I don't know why… It's like a cliché—for lack of a better phrase I used it. But hey, it works!

Author's Note: Okay, here it is, the third chapter! Not much Erik, but hopefully interesting enough. Believe me, there will be a LOT more Erik in the near future. J 

Thank you to everyone who reviewed: Bluedrake, Warm-in-Pink-Fuzzy-Pants, Raydias, Sweet Thang aka Harrys Crush, Dangyr, Polgara la Fae, Nicolette, Chona, SS/Destiny Daae, Erika and Alexis Rockford. Thank you to my editors, and please, please review! You have no idea how much it means to me!

Chapter Three: A Talk with Husband #1

Hey, I never said it was a _good_ talk!

Her eyes opened suddenly. Above her leaned her husband… Raoul. He did not look happy.

"Christine, what are you doing?"

"I was working, dear, and then this headache came on and…oh!" she lied, groaning in fictitious pain. Well, perhaps it wasn't a total lie. In her dream she was sick, so maybe, subconsciously, she was sick in real life. Maybe.

Raoul's face transformed from that of an angry husband to one of a concerned lover. "Oh darling," he said, "I'm sorry! Forgive me… Here, you stay lying down and I will go cook dinner. How does salmon sound?"

__

Sounds like the same thing we eat every night. "Very good," she said aloud. "Thank you, Raoul." He gave her a weary smile, kissed her forehead and left the room. Just then, Christine felt very selfish; after all, Raoul had been working all day and needed rest much more than she, who had been sleeping all day. Not only that, but she had lied to her husband. It was a sickening feeling; once she acknowledged it, her stomach knotted and churned. It burned like…like the sensation of stage fright. Christine realized then that she had once again placed herself in the position of the actress. _Not a liar, an actress,_ she thought. _And I will perform._

Christine slowly descended the stairs, gripping the railing to steady herself; she was afraid the fierce pain in her stomach would knock her over. Yet within every step the pain decreased. She imagined herself at the Opera House once again, walking towards the great stage. And she felt the part from the vision; instinctively her back straightened and her chin roes, not in egotistical superiority, but in dignity.

When she turned the sharp corner at the bottom of the stairs, her back slouched once again and her chin sunk into her chest. She regained the appearance of the migraine-stricken peasant.

Raoul's back was turned to her as she entered the kitchen. "Raoul," she asked, "do you need any help?"

He turned around, knife in hand. "No, darling, I'm just finishing. Sit down."

Christine slid into a chair and began to massage her temples. The pain had trenched upwards by then to her head, its headquarters located right behind her eyes. This pain was real; unlike her previous opinion it was not just an effect of her imagination, nor the result of lying to her husband. She really did feel faint. All she wanted to do was climb into bed and…what, sleep? For she knew that sleep would bring not rest, but Erik.

Well, no. Not exactly Erik. More of a brain-altered Erik where there was no Raoul and no Phantom, just the two of them and love. A dream Erik who was content and married, practically perfect in every way. The Erik she had known was tortured, anguished and hardly happy.

The mystery of the dream still remained. Where was Raoul through all of this? How did she end up married to Erik? She was so bewildered and the confusion only made her head pound harder.

Raoul sat down and placed a plate in front of her. _Fish_, Christine thought, sighing, _something new and different_. She stared at the small plate and slowly broke up the salmon with her fork. She lifted it to her mouth but couldn't bear to eat it. So she hid it in her napkin and proceeded to push the pieces of fish around her plate. Eventually, Raoul noticed.

"Darling," he asked, "why aren't you eating? What are you thinking about?"

"Christine looked up and met his eyes. "Erik," she said bluntly, refusing to lie again just to spare his feelings. "I was thinking about Erik."

But the moment she said it, she regretted it. Raoul's face burned a bright red, his teeth clenched together and his brow knotted fiercely in a scowl. "Oh," he said, obviously hurt and trying to control his temper. He did not like to be reminded of Erik. "Why have you been thinking of…him?"

Perhaps she should have spared his feelings. Now she had to be careful and tread lightly to make sure she did not cause the volcanic eruption of Mt. de Chagny. "No reason, really," she replied, hoping the subject would be dropped. Of course, it was a false hope.

"Now don't do that, Christine!" Raoul yelled suddenly, slamming the table with his fist and causing Christine's bones to jump out of her skin. "You brought him up and you will talk about it. I've been through enough torture concerning that demon for you no to talk about it." Every muscle was tensed under the scarlet skin of his face.

Yet Christine was defiant and rose to meet his eye. "Perhaps it isn't your business, like you seem to think. Perhaps I miss Paris and all that it means for me. Perhaps I miss a friend, whom I…"

"Friend!" Raoul interrupted. "A friend? A fiend is more like it! Christine, he was a madman! Do you remember how it was? How you wept in my arms for fear of being taken down to his dark home and never returning?"

But the truth was, Christine did not remember it. She could recall the events, knew exactly what had happened, but she was unable to feel the emotions she knew she once had felt. Perhaps her mind was too filled with thoughts of that wonderful Erik who waited for her in sleep to remember that terrifying Erik who really existed. And yet…that side of Erik—the side from her dream—it must have come from somewhere. And he had been so tender with her sometimes, so loving… Could it be that Erik was formed of both sides within him…and it only took a little kindness to bring out the good?

Christine slammed her palms against her ears in a useless attempt to block the thoughts from her head. She didn't want to think about her mistakes, about what she could have done. She just wished…she just wanted…

Her mind was suddenly clear and she looked at Raoul once again, her eyes glistening with tears. "I just want to know how he is. That's all. I want to know if I killed him."

She hung her head in shame and let the tears fall. Raoul slowly walked around the table, his shoes hitting the wooden floor hard. When he reached his wife, he gently laid a hand on her back and she leaned into his chest, taking comfort in that simple physical expression. After her tears had died down, he lowered his face to kiss her and she let him. He was entitled to that, at least. But as they kissed, Christine realized that he couldn't offer her everything she needed. She was bored here; her dream was precisely what it was—a dream, the thing that her heart yearned for. She loved Raoul, but not the way he deserved and not to the extent that she knew she was able to love.

But perhaps this was her punishment. Wrong choice, right choice, did it matter? She had harmed another human being, maybe even killed one, and she had made her choice. She now had to stick with it, for better or for worse. It wasn't even a punishment, for she did enjoy Raoul's company and wanted to be with him… But their souls were different. Raoul, even with his high society upbringing, was content to simply be settled down and busy. Christine was different. Twenty-three years old and no longer meek and scared, she needed to soar and experience thrills and vary her days. Enclosed and cramped, she feared she would fade like the final flickers of a flame. She needed her freedom; she wanted the stage…

Thoughts like these continued to pour into her head as her lips still pressed against Raoul's. She pulled away as she choked on a sob. Raoul stepped back, trying to be sympathetic.

"Christine," he said softly, "what do you want?"

"What do I want?" she repeated, her bottom lip trembling. "I want…" _Excitement and Paris. I want things I can't have. I want…_ "to sleep," she finished. "I'm just over-tired." Raoul nodded his head in agreement. She rubbed her eyes harshly and flung the tears away before she moved go upstairs.

"Christine," Raoul said, just before she passed him. She looked up at him through her tears, which didn't seem able to stop forming. "Everything will be alright," he continued in an attempt to comfort her. "He's gone. He can't come back to get you." Christine nodded and left quickly, not letting him see the tears start to fall again. He had meant well, and she knew that, but it just made her sadder.

She climbed into bed, wanting merely to sleep and drift into oblivion for a little while. Yet she forgot in that moment what she hadn't forgotten in all her waking hours: that sleep would bring Erik.


	4. Teacher, Husband Killer?

Disclaimer: Hmmm, I wonder what this is gonna say! I do not own any of the characters, blah blah blah.

A/N: Okay everyone, I haven't updated in _a **long** _time! I was stuck for awhile and then took a long time just getting myself to type—hey, it…was…summer and I hate doing work of any kind (even though this isn't really work but you still have to think). But the next chapter's actually almost ready, it's just being tweaked a little. The plot is getting thicker. Note about the next chapter at the end of this one!

****

Teacher, Husband… Killer?

The sound of water splashing into a tub greeted her when she awoke, once again in the large bed in Erik's house. Christine buried her face in the pillow, wishing for a peaceful rest and release from both worlds. She feigned sleep for the next few minutes while someone—Erik without a doubt—continued to full the bathtub. She was restless, however, tossing and turning, her body yearning to be active but her mind craving peace.

Eventually, she succumbed to the whims of her body. Her headache was gone—that was a first in her dream. Usually it was a constant, unwavering presence. With that out of the way, Christine would be able to explore this dream world.

She opened her eyes just as Erik appeared in the doorway of the lavatory. "Good morning, my dear," he said. His eyes were tired, Christine noted. "I just finished preparing your bath." He came and stood next to the bed, his long form towering over her small figure. Once she would have seen him as intimidating and backed away. Now she merely took comfort in his presence, intense and intimidating as it was. "How are you feeling now, Christine?"

"Well-rested, for once," she said, pushing herself up with the heel of her palm. "And much, much better."

"And the headache?"

"Surprisingly gone!" Christine exclaimed.

"I'm glad," he said, smiling. "I've drawn you a bath, my dear, so if you're…" The doorbell interrupted him. Christine sat up, frightened.

"Who could that be?" Christine asked. It took all of her efforts to keep her voice steady. _Please, don't let it be Raoul…_she thought. Christine had no idea why she thought Raoul might be there, but the fact that he had yet to show up in the dream made her nervous.

"It's probably just Nadir come for a visit," Erik replied, his eyes obviously catching the panic she had tried so hard to suppress. He sat down beside her and tilted his head towards hers. "Why don't you take your bath and perhaps, if you're feeling up to it, you might join us after for some tea."

Christine nodded, turning to face him. "All right," she whispered. His eyes mirrored her own anxiety but, she assumed, for a different reason than hers. The doorbell rang once again, startling Christine even more than the first and causing her to jump towards the middle of the bed. Erik looked towards the bedroom door with a smile peeking at the edge of his mouth.

"Yes, it must be Nadir," he assented, looking back at Christine with two more smiles flashing through his eyes. "Only he would be so impertinent as to ring _my_ doorbell twice."

Christine felt her quivering lips turn upwards into a small smile. He leaned in then, as if to say something, even opened his mouth a bit, his eyes once again streaked with worry. But before any words could form something flashed in his eyes; what it was Christine couldn't tell. Fear? A memory? Yet Christine knew that whatever he saw it was awful and tragic. Something deep inside her heart told her this, although she knew not what it was. But her feelings were only confirmed by the way Erik sat up straight, his eyes alert and panicked. He quickly walked to the door, his hand covering the visible half of his face.

As he reached for the doorknob, Christine called out his name. When he turned, he looked at her with a sadness she had never seen in him before. It was a deeper, harsher pain than she had ever seen in anyone before. No, that wasn't true. She had seen this pain somewhere else…but where? Who? Whatever the answer, her heart knew that something was wrong. Wrong with her, with him…with them, with something else she didn't know about. She wanted to ask him what he was thinking. She wanted to ask him what plagued him and what was wrong with her. Millions of questions pulsed insider her brain but only one made its way to her mouth:

"Who is Nadir?"

Confusion must have reigned once more in that kingdom of knowledge known as Erik's mind. "You know, Nadir," he said, "my old friend, the Daroga?"

"Oh yes, _Nadir_," she said, putting to tongue the long-forgotten name. He was the one who led Raoul to Erik's house on that last, fateful night. Erik's brow seemed no less tense even after she recognized his friend's name. He hurried back over to her side.

"Christine, what is it? Why are you for—"

The doorbell interrupted him for a third time. Erik cursed his friend loudly and then knelt down beside Christine and looked into her eyes. "Give me five minutes," he said softly. "I will send him away. Then I'll make something to eat and we can talk."

"No," she replied, her tone matching his. "You want to see your friend and, I'm guessing by his obvious impatience, he wants to see you also. I will join you later."

"Christine, I'm worried."

__

Don't be worried, Erik; it's only a dream, Christine thought. "I'm fine," she said as the doorbell rang for the fourth time. "Go—before he breaks down the door!"

Christine gently lowered herself into the bathtub; closing her eyes, she leaned her head against the marble back. The water settled around her body and for a few moments she didn't even think; she concentrated solely on the gentle rippling sounds of the water. But it lasted only a few peaceful seconds as a loud bang caused the water in the tub to tremble, even before she jumped at the sound.

"I don't need your help, Nadir!" Erik's voice boomed, easily permeating the wall. Erik and Nadir had entered the Louis-Philippe Room, and Christine could hear every word of their conversation. "Erik, you must listen to reason…"

"Reason is not yours to give, Daroga! When will you learn not to interfere in my business?"

"She is sick! Stop being stubborn and take her to a doctor!"

"A doctor can't fix a broken heart." The room on the other side of the wall at once lapsed into silence. The only sound Christine could hear was the beating of her own heart—her _broken_ heart. It was her they were talking about, wasn't it? But why, she questioned, would her heart be broken? Was it Raoul? No, it couldn't be…Erik said he didn't know of Raoul. And he wouldn't lie to her.

Finally, the silence was broken. "Erik," Nadir said, "I know you're in pain, but think of Christine! It's been over three months and, don't deny it, Erik, you know she's not getting any better."

After another few tense seconds, Erik replied, softly at first, but with growing alacrity and fury, "No, I won't deny it. Not only is she not getting any better, she's getting worse. Each day I watch her slip farther away from me, towards some place I don't know about. But I know that if she ever arrives there, I'll never reach her. I am a great magician, Nadir, but I can't bring back lost things—I never have been able to! And the worst part is—I did this to her! I am the reason she is flowing swiftly down that river to—" By now Erik was screaming. His voice flooded the bathroom where Christine sat huddled in the bathtub, a river of tears joining the already present lake around her. _She was dying._ It was just a dream, but nevertheless, she was dying. The dream would end then. It was pleasant here; Christine took great comfort in the fact that, whenever she felt lonely or upset, she could close her eyes and Erik would appear. Soon, he wouldn't. _But what did Erik mean when he said it was his fault? _she thought. _What did he do?_ Christine turned her attentions once again to the Louis-Philippe Room, but both their voices had dropped and she had to strain to hear their conversation.

Nadir was speaking. "It is not your fault. It is no more your fault than it is hers. It's no one's fault. Come," he continued, "let us go into the kitchen and prepare the tea you promised your wife. I daresay she will be joining us." Christine sat up at the reference to her. They would be expecting her soon; she must hurry.

A few minutes later she sat in a simple blue housedress at her vanity table, brushing through her wet hair. Actually, she was not as interested in her hair as she was in collecting her nerves and trying to push the conversation she had just heard out of her mind. The questions that were plaguing her—too many to name—had to be stored and not dwelled upon until she woke up. There would be plenty of time then. Her time with Erik, however, was limited, and there were still so many things she had to talk to him about. But she must remember not to ask him things that his wife would obviously know; it only seemed to worry him more. Who is Nadir? Ha! It's a good thing he didn't have her committed to a mad house right then and there!

With her hair pulled back in a cluster of damp ringlets, Christine, for the first time in three years, left her bedroom and entered Erik's kitchen. 

"Hello, dear," Erik said with a large smile on his face. _He's pretending everything's fine. _Christine thought; _he must have been hiding this all along. Well, his eyes betray him._ And indeed they did. His eyes were still full of that tragic pain she had noted earlier in the bedroom. There they were, looking into hers with such a deep sadness that she had to turn her head, lest she begin to cry. Erik stood up as she returned his greeting and pulled out a chair for her, she murmured a "bonjour" to Nadir and sat down, staring at her hands in her lap.

"How are you feeling, Christine?" Nadir asked.

"Good. _Very good,_" she stressed. "Much better than yesterday."

"I'm glad. _Very glad,_" Nadir said. At first Christine thought he was mocking her, but discarded the idea when she saw the playful way he smiled at her. _Erik's wife and he must be very friendly together,_ she thought.

For the next two hours, the three conversed intimately with each other. Not so intimately as to bring up Christine's health or Erik's blame in the matter, but on everything else they shared together: from the Operato the people they knew. Christine was glad that she had paid special attention to the events at the Opera these past three years—it certainly helped! She knew all about the new management and their (what some would call) unorthodox views. And although she did not know what Carlotta was doing now, it was interesting to learn that the diva had apparently tried to start a new career in England, but could not find an opera house willing to take her! So she had finally returned to her native Spain, receiving a celebrated welcome. Erik and Nadir even recalled some of their happier times in Persia together, which delighted Christine, who had never known much of that particular part of the past. But the first time she yawned, two hours after she had sat down, Erik immediately bid Nadir say his farewells and sent Christine off to bed. She waited for Erik to come in to talk, as she was sure he must; Raoul always did. But the moment she saw the pillow she could not resist lying down; the moment she lay down she could not help but close her eyes and the moment she did that… she woke up.

A/N: Like it? Just a little? Please? Review puh-lease if you did! About the next chapter, it's gonna take place _entirely_ in the presence of Raoul. I know. I was anxious while writing it to get to Erik too but I do introduce a character completely from my own imagination. Her name's Marguerite and she's Christine's friend (don't worry, I'm not going to "make" her come between Raoul and Christine; she's married). So why am I telling you this now? Well, Marguerite holds a _major_ piece of the puzzle. In the next chapter there will be a _big_ clue as to what's actually going on with Christine. Just telling you now to watch for it. The web of my story will be getting bigger and, although everything is revealed in the end, take notice of the clues in the next chapter! Heh heh. I love the power I have sometimes. Singing: "I know something you don't knoooowww!" Just kidding! Thanks for reading and…reviewing.


	5. Counterpoint

Disclaimer: I do not own Christine, Erik, Raoul, Nadir, or anyone from the original novel, the musical or _Phantom_. We all know who those characters belong to. I do, however, own Marguerite and Frederick Lenfent (although I borrowed the last name from Anne Rice, so, yeah, that belongs to her). If anyone read my story _Mademoiselle Daae is Dead_, that story is actually the Phantomized version of a short story I wrote for my Creative Writing class, _Mademoiselle Lenfent_ _is Dead_. That story is accountable for the birth of Marguerite and Frederick. They're my babies and I couldn't NOT put them in this story! They fall in pretty nicely, I think. Their story has been condensed **greatly** but if anyone would like to read their story just email me and I'll send it along.

A/N: Wow, the time periods between updates keep getting longer and longer, huh? Well, I hope you all enjoy the fifth chapter! 

****

Counterpoint

Sugar trotted peacefully along the well-worn path. He needed no direction from Christine; he had been down this road many times before and was well aware of which turns to take. Besides, even if he forgot the way, he could always just follow Belle, who was being guided by Raoul. But the way to the Lenfents was relatively easy and Sugar was a very smart horse. 

Above him sat Christine, looking very confused. The previous night's dream was replaying in her brain, with images as concrete as memories. Yet the harder she thought about it the less she understood. She did not know what was happening to her—well, her in the dream—and what Erik had to do with her sickness. Didn't he say it was all his fault? He said she had a broken heart, but Christine didn't think that made much sense at all. How could heartache make a person physically sick? And even if it could, what had Erik, her husband, done to make her so emotionally and physically sick? 

Well, whatever had happened, the truth would never be revealed to her while she was awake, Christine knew that. She must wait until she went to sleep again that night and, hopefully, she would understand everything. But until then, she would enjoy this visit with Marguerite and not think about the dream at all.

Marguerite Lenfent and her husband, Frederick, were very close friends to the de Chagnys. They had befriended the couple when Raoul and Christine first moved to the village nearly three years ago. The two women at once formed an unbreakable bond and loved each other dearly. Their husbands, too, became close friends and each Saturday the two couples would spend the entire day together. The would all have lunch together and afterwards Raoul and Frederick would retreat into the study for brandy and Marguerite and Christine would talk in the parlor.

Marguerite and Frederick's marriage had been considered a scandal, just like Christine and Raoul's. A few years earlier, Marguerite was a beautiful heiress living in the heart of Paris and engaged to the wealthy and noble Nicolas Bouden. However, she fell in love with Frederick Lenfent, a poor orphan living in a small shack and providing for four other orphans. After a year of tug-of-war between the two men, Marguerite decided to follow her heart and marry Frederick. The two, after finding the other four orphans jobs and new situations, left Paris for the countryside. By that time Frederick had sold his first manuscript and had a steady income coming from his publisher. He continued to write after they left Paris and has had several essays and another novel published. 

Christine was pulled from her reverie—literally—as Raoul lifted her off of Sugar. As soon as her feet were on the ground, Marguerite burst out of the front door and threw her arms around her friend's neck. "Christine," she cried, "how are you? Has it only been a week? Raoul told Fred that you were sick and—are you feeling better? Come, let's get you inside. Good afternoon, Raoul," she said, noticing him for the first time.

Their lunch was pleasant as it always was. They had a wonder meal of filet mignon (much better than fish) and delightful conversation with it. Frederick announced that he was to go to Paris on Monday to speak with his publisher and invited Raoul to come along. Yet he declined because he had to work this week, which Christine dutifully reminded him. Raoul reported on the return of Monsieur Latrec, the village doctor and another of Raoul's friends who had been away on a business venture in Rouen. Afterwards the men retreated into the study and the ladies went into the parlor.

The Lenfents' house was much nicer than Christine and Raoul's. Frederick's latest novel had been highly acclaimed (as his essays always were) and thus they had a large amount of extra money. Marguerite had a wonderful taste in fine things and Frederick knew where to go for the least expensive items. Together they found a happy medium and redecorated most of the house. They also helped the de Chagnys pick out furniture for their living room, although they didn't have nearly the same size budget. 

Christine and Marguerite took their usual seats on the sofa and, once they were sitting, Marguerite took her companion's hand. "Tell me, my dear Christine," she said, "now that the men aren't here. How are you? Truly."

Christine forced a smile. "I am fine. Do not worry about me. I've just had headaches and…" She stalled, pondering whether or not to tell Marguerite about the dream. She trusted her friend, more than anyone else, even more than Raoul, but the dream felt…sacred. Like what she saw when she closed her eyes at night was only for her and Erik to know. 

"Raoul says you have been sleeping quite a lot recently," Marguerite said. "Perhaps you are pregnant."

"No!" Christine exclaimed. "I am not pregnant! Trust me, Marguerite!"

"It's all right, Christine. I am fine," she replied, but with a betraying quiver of her lower lip.

"No," Christine repeated, this time softly. "Believe me," she continued, with a little laugh and nod of the head, "I am not pregnant."

"Oh," Marguerite said, understanding. "But you would tell me… if you were?"

"Of course!" she paused. "Marguerite, dear Marguerite… how are _you_?"

The young woman twirled a strand of hair that had fallen out of her bun and placed it behind her ear. "I am…well," she said, lifting her head to meet Christine's eyes. "It has been a difficult time, true, but… oh, Christine, he's been so good to me! I was inconsolable and he comforted me. I felt diseased and ugly and he made me feel beautiful. He lets me cry on his shoulder whenever I need to—which I'll admit, has been quite a lot recently. He is my stronghold and—oh, Christine, you will never believe what he said. We were at dinner last week and I looked at him and said, 'If I am unable to have children, I will understand if you want to leave me.' He simply smiled at me and said, 'Children would be a blessing, Marguerite. But you are my miracle. If I ever left you my heart would collapse.'" Marguerite smiled, tears cascading down her cheeks. "He is such a writer, my husband, isn't he? What would I ever do without him?"

Christine felt tears in her own eyes. She wondered what Raoul's reaction would be if she were ever to have a miscarriage. "You are a very lucky woman."

"We," she replied, "we are very lucky women. Come," she continued, moving to sit in front of the piano. "Let us sing something. I am in the mood to sing."

"Oh, no, Marguerite, I mustn't," Christine quickly responded. 

"Oh, come now, I am sure Raoul wouldn't mind this once!"

"No, it isn't that…" Christine drifted off again, lost in her own thoughts. She could not sing without thinking of Erik, and thinking of Erik meant thinking of the dream and his fate and… She just wasn't prepared to do all this thinking both with her friend before her and Raoul in the next room.

But in her hesitation she had been caught. Marguerite knew something was wrong and she was not the kind of woman to keep from prying. "Christine," she said, slowly. "What is it? You can tell me."

Christine sighed. "It's Erik. I've been dreaming of him."

Marguerite's lips curled into a devious little smile. She knew all about Christine's past and everything about Erik. "Really?"

"Marguerite!" Christine laughed. "It's been an odd experience, I can tell you that. In my dream…" she paused, leaned in closer to her friend and began to whisper, even though no one could possible hear them either way. "In my dream, we're married, Erik and I. And there is no Raoul! Everything that really happened never happened—Erik had never heard of Raoul before!"

"You mean, no Angel of Music?"

"Well, I don't know, but there was no Raoul! No nemesis, no competition… Unless I had a different fiancée, but I don't know about that… And, oh, I am very sick. I keep fainting, or something… and Erik blames himself."

"He told you this?"

"No he told Nadir."

"Who's Nadir?"

"The Persian gentleman who took Raoul down to find me."

"Oh. So, how do you know that Erik blames himself?"

"I was eavesdropping."

"Oh." The two were silent for a moment, each trying to organize their thoughts.

"That sounds ridiculous, doesn't it?" Christine asked.

"Just a bit," Marguerite replied, as they both began to laugh.

"I always pictured what my life would be like if I acted differently, but I never imagined…" Christine sighed, and leaned her head against he friend's shoulder. "I loved them both, Marguerite. Does that make me horrible?"

"No, dear," she said, stroking Christine's hair. "It makes you human. You loved the comfort in Raoul and the mystery and uniqueness of Erik. I don't know what I would do in that situation."

"But you chose your Erik."

Marguerite smiled. "It is not right to compare Frederick to Erik and Nicolas to Raoul. True, Frederick was different, but he did not wear a mask, did not live beneath an Opera House and never harmed anyone in his life! Nicolas was nothing like Raoul; he was abusive and only wanted me for my dowry. There was never any doubt in my mind who I wanted to marry. Christine," she continued, after a pause, "did you ever think that you chose your Frederick?"

"No," she replied. "I guess I never have. But, as you said, you never doubted your choice. Three years later, I am still filled with doubt, a doubt that has never left my side since I left Erik!"

"Then learn as much as you can from this dream of yours, Christine. When it all ends, one way or the other, you will no longer have doubt."

Like it? Hate it? Do you like Marguerite and Frederick. (Frederick, but the way, is in fond remembrance of another literary Frederick—has anyone read Philip Pullman's _The Sally Lockhart Trilogy_? If you have, siiiigh. That Fred is like my ideal man! Honestly, he's just so wonderful! Everyone go out and read those books—just the first two actually. DON'T read the third! I guarantee you'll love him too!) Well, sorry it took so long! Please review and—as soon as I'm finished with my college apps—the next chapter will be up! 


	6. Raoul and What Followed

Disclaimer: I don't own Christine, Erik, Raoul or Meg but I do own Frederick and Marguerite. If you don't know that by now something might be wrong.

A/N: Okay, update. Finally. Hopefully I'll get another one in before Christmas. School's just been really busy.

****

Raoul… and What Followed

__

Dear Meg,

I could probably go on for pages about how much I miss you, but I have very little time to write. So, please, know that I miss you very much and, even though I don't write often, I think about you every day.

Now I don't know if you will understand this, but I will explain everything later. But just tell me this—and please hurry in your response—do you know anything of the Phantom? It is very important that I know—my sanity depends on it!

All will be explained when I have more time to write. Please address your response to Madam Marguerite Lenfent. She will give it to me.

With all my love and gratitude,

Christine

Christine quickly slipped to letter into an envelope and addressed it, her hand moving as fast as nature would permit. She handed it to her friend and, just as their husbands entered the parlor, Marguerite pressed it between two books on the side table.

"Hello, my dear," Frederick's voice floated lightly on the air as he quickly walked over to receive Marguerite's awaiting embrace. Christine saw him whisper something into his wife's ear as she smiled, closing her eyes. Christine's own husband came over and gave her a small kiss on the cheek.

"Hello, darling, how are you feeling?"

"A little tired, dear, but I'll be fine."

"Who's ready for a game of cards?" Frederick asked, pulling himself away from Marguerite.

"It seems we will be leaving now," Raoul said harshly. "Christine's _tired_."

The eyes of the three other people in the room expanded greatly and Christine cried, "Raoul!"

He turned to her with an aesthetic smile. "Pardon me, Christine, did you not say that you were tired?"

"Frederick, can I talk to you?" Marguerite asked with a wary eye in the de Chagnys' direction. "In the other room, please." The two quickly left the room, leaving Christine and Raoul in molten anger.

"I can't believe you…" Christine started.

"What, Christine, what?" Blood rushed through his veins to his temples, causing them to stick out in a very unattractive manner.

"How could you stand there and start an argument in front of our friends like that?"

"It wasn't me who started it! _You_ are the one who wants to leave!"

"I never—"

"You're always _tired_! What is happening, Christine? Something is wrong and you're not telling me! Trust me! Tell me! What is your secret?" Christine looked into her husband's eyes and saw the anguish that lay beneath them. _How had he known something was wrong?_ she thought to herself and then, for the first time, she contemplated actually telling Raoul about the dream. But if he knew she was continually escaping into a world where Erik was her husband… Why, it would cause him more pain than he ever needed! If she told him anything about the dream she would have to tell him everything—and imagine how he would react if he knew Erik was the reason she wanted to sleep more than usual. No, she would say nothing of the dream. Not now, or ever.

"There is no secret, Raoul," she said softly, placing her hand on his cheek. "I am just a little sick and I sleep frequently so that I might get better faster." Her husband's face softened a little.

"But what about the whispers between you and Marguerite? I saw her hide something as we came in."

"Oh that!" Christine cried in false enthusiasm. "She got Frederick a present, that's all. She was showing me when you two came in unexpectedly."

"Oh," Raoul said, color rising to his cheeks. "You must forgive me for being so rude and untrusting. I am sorry that I embarrassed you and myself."

"Think nothing of it, dear," she replied. She was happy that she had fooled him, but once again she felt deceitful and traitorous. This was her husband she was lying to after all! "Let's just go home."

"Yes, I know, you're tired," he repeated. With that he quickly led her out of the room, his hand placed protectively around her waist. They said their good-byes (Marguerite promised to send the letter to Paris that evening) and began the short ride home.

When they arrived, Christine (as she so often did these days) went directly to sleep after giving Raoul a small kiss. And when she opened her eyes a minute later, she found herself looking at a different ceiling than the one she closed her eyes under. She looked around, expecting to see Erik; so far he had always been near when she began the dream. But this time he wasn't, or at least nowhere in sight.

She stepped out of bed hesitantly, still turning her head from side to side in anticipation of Erik's entrance. Still he failed to appear. So Christine walked over to the wardrobe, pulled out a robe that she assumed must be hers, and put it on over her nightgown. She had no idea what time it was or if it was proper to be fully dressed by now, but Christine had no time to ponder these things; she wanted to find Erik. His absence worried her; she did not know why, but a knot was continuously growing in her stomach with each minute that she didn't see him. She felt immensely vulnerable because she didn't know where he was, like something horrific would happen if she didn't find him soon.

She opened the bedroom door and stretched her neck beyond the frame. "Erik," she called. "Are you there?" No answer. Christine stepped cautiously into the living room and looked around. She softened her footsteps and slowly made her way to the door of the parlor, which she softly pushed open. Again she called for Erik and again there was no reply. She could feel the tears forming in the corners of her eyes, but she stopped them before they fell. Erik was not here but he would be back. All that she could do was get dressed and wait.

******************

The sun had shone brightly as Christine awoke into a beautiful Parisian morning. Flowers stretched their necks toward the sun, who showed his gratification for their worship by beaming harder and making their petals sparkle with color. Laughter bounced off walls on every street as children flooded their nannies with their spring cloaks and played freely in the sun-drenched streets. Lovers embraced openly, rejoicing in the rays. But of course Christine could not have known this, for she was five stories below the pavement where these lovers walked, opening her eyes in the windowless room. It was Erik who had seen this morning's sights as he was bringing fresh bread back to the house. He described all these details and more (there were just the prominent images she could remember) after he arrived home and found Christine nervously waiting for him in the parlor.

Her anxiety departed with his return and she found herself feeling incredibly happy that the dream had once again taken her to the bedroom in Erik's house and far away from her won house, where no doubt Raoul still sat, upset. Christine had decided before she went to sleep that, should the dream come again, she would enjoy it full-heartedly. After all, she did not know when this dream would end, and she meant to experience it as best she could. She decided to forget about Raoul while she was asleep, and do whatever she wanted to, whatever that means. Above all, she refused to think about their argument. It made her furious to remember how he embarrassed both of them by starting the argument in front of their friends—and in their home, no less! And it made her even more upset to know that, for all the excuses she had made up, he still knew something was wrong! Was she not—or had she not been—an actress? But she resolved not to think about him any more; she had to remember not to let her angry thoughts be thought, confusing as that may sound. Just as she thought this, however, Erik ironically said:

"I found out about this Raoul you were asking about."

Christine nearly choked on her breakfast. "Oh?"

"Yes. He was a Vicomte, right? And his brother was Comte Philippe de Chagny?" She nodded her head in awe. _No!_ she thought. _He can't come into the dream now!_ "Then I have the right boy. He took violin lessons with your father when he was young and I was told that you and he were very good friends."

"Yes, we spent a lot of time together when we were children. But how do you know all this?"

"His brother is a patron of the Opera. It was very easy information to get. Do you want to know what happened to your friend?"

"What happened?"

Erik laid his hand on hers so lightly that Christine would not have known it was there had she not seen the movement. "When he was eighteen, he accompanied an uncle on an expedition to the North Pole… Have you ever heard of the D'Artois expedition?" Christine shook her head and Erik sighed. "The ship has never been heard from since. I'm very sorry, Christine."

"He died?" Christine stared unbelievably at Erik. "Six years ago?" He nodded. "So… I wasn't even in Paris, was I?"

"Yes, you were; you had just entered the conservatory. What I don't understand is… Christine, you were at the funeral."

"I… I was?" she stuttered. "I don't…"

"Remember? Christine what is it? A week ago you were fine, you were singing again and then… Then what? It was like you…you didn't… you were the same but different."

Christine looked at him, at his longing to understand her and his pain at not being able to. She knew, as surely as she had known that she should not tell Raoul of the dream, that she could not tell Erik. So, since it had already become second nature to her, she once again lied to her husband.

"It's true, I have been having trouble remembering things. But not…everything."

"What do you remember?"

"Well, you," Christine stumbled, "and the Angel of Music and…" She stopped. That was where Raoul began to be an important part in their…story. Without him, events must have been different—of course they were; she was married to Erik after all, wasn't she? "And that's all," she concluded.

Erik's shoulders slumped over and she could feel more than see his face falling. For the first time in a long while, she though that he looked old.

"You don't remember anything else? Not even why you're…ill?" Christine shook her head. He paused to think. "Well, let's clean up breakfast and I'll tell you everything after."

A/N: Dun Dun Dun!!!! No you just need to ask yourselves one question: Can you handle the truth?

PS: I don't own the D'Artois expedition either. In case y'all don't remember, in the original novel Raoul was going to the North Pole to search for survivors from this expedition. See ya next time!


	7. The Real Story Pt 1

Disclaimer: I do not own it blah, blah, just read!

A/N: Well, guys, this is a long time coming. I hope you like it. I know I said I would have it up before Christmas (and it was ready to go up before Christmas) but I got wicked sick and couldn't get out of bed for my entire vacation from the moment school ended to New Year's. And then (voila!) school started again. Now it's almost February and I feel really bad. But I had today off from school (Semester Break) so I decided to put this up today! Hopefully the next chapter (which is sitting in my notebook and just needs to be transcribed onto the computer) will be up soon! Well, enjoy. You don't really get to see angst-y Christine in this chapter, and you may be confused as to why she's so upset in the beginning, put this is part one of a two part explanation (it was too long to make into one chapter). Hopefully this chapter will show everyone how happy Christine and Erik could have been if she had not been in love with Raoul as well (notice my "as well"?). Oh yes, and on a more personal note: I GOT INTO NYU!!!!!!! I AM GOING TO TISCH!!!! NOW I DO NOT HAVE TO CHANGE MY EMAIL!!!!! YEAAAA!!! I'm a little excited hehe. READ ON!

****

The Real Story Pt. 1

The wardrobe door belched a low creak as it swung open. Erik reached inside and shuffled through the tight row of clothes. He pulled out a white nightgown and placed it on the bed. Then he walked over to Christine, who was sitting with her head lowered in the chair next to the vanity table. He tucked his hand under her hair and brushed his lips gently across the top of her head.

"I never should have told you everything," he sighed, slowly falling to his knees in front of her. She kept her head down. "I should have waited until you were better. I hope you can forgive me." He paused, waiting for her to respond, which she didn't. She couldn't! The story continued to plague her mind like the disease in her mind—for that's all it is: a disease of the mind! Nothing wrong—but everything wrong! For the first time since the dream began, Christine had to get out—she couldn't be here. She needed to wake up. Although her mind was empty of the memories that he described, the pain was there, and it was very real, not imagined at all. It seared across her brain and viciously attacked the back of her eyes, this pain of knowledge, if that is what one calls it. It was all too much, too soon; she needed her escape, which stood only inches away. He needed to leave so that she could leave this crazy existence. He blamed himself; she knew this. Even if he hadn't said to Nadir, she would have known through his eyes or the urgency behind his touch. Even without saying anything, his hand on her neck pleased her to look at him and let him know what she was feeling. His lips begged forgiveness when he kissed her hair and the angel at which he kneeled prayed for her recovery. But she refused him everything; she could not look up, nor speak, nor even think but to remember his words, the future unimaginable.

His breath staggered as he rose, and she closed her eyes as his shadow enfolded her. "Sleep now," he whispered. He quickly strode to the door and shut it without making a sound. Or if it did, Christine didn't hear it; the echo of his last words still rung in her ears: "I love you."

Christine slowly got up and walked towards the nightgown lying on the bed. _To bed now. Stop thinking, stop thinking!_ But she couldn't; the story she had just heard played once again in her mind.

His tale began on the night of the Masquerade Ball, after Christine had been with Erik for those first two weeks. As Raoul was long since dead, she obviously did not meet him there. Erik said that he did not know what she was doing while he roamed as Red Death, but when he went to collect her later in her dressing room, she was already there, sitting at her small desk, fervently writing. He was about to call out to her when there was a sudden rapping on the door. Christine looked up, obviously surprised, and opened the door.

"Oh, Christine, it is you!" Meg wrapped her little arms around her friend as Christine hushed her and let her in. "Where have you been for so long? I've been worried!"

"Hush, Meg! You must tell no one you've seen me," she replied, motioning for her friend to sit next to her on the couch. 

"I won't tell a soul! But you must tell me where you've been this past fortnight."

Christine looked down at her hands. "I've been with Him," she said softly.

"Who? Your Angel of Music?" Christine nodded. "Thank God! The rumor was that you were kidnapped by the Phantom." Christine looked her friend in the eyes and nodded once again, this time very slowly. "What? Well, which? The Angel or the Ghost? Both?"

"Yes, well no—they are one and the same! The Phantom is the Angel, and they are also a man!"

"Christine, you are making no sense at all. Which is he: a spirit or a man?"

"He's a man! But he is also the Ghost and my Angel."

"Which is what doesn't make sense. How can he haunt the Opera as a ghost, give you voice lessons from Heaven as an angel, and live on Earth as a man?"

"Meg!" Christine sighed, obviously frustrated. The little dancer also seemed annoyed, but Erik found their conversation quite amusing. True, he was hurt by this form of betrayal, but he reasoned that Meg was a harmless outlet for Christine's feelings, of which he was also quite curious to discover. So he had never told Christine that he had witnessed this conversation (until now that is). "Listen," Christine continued. "The Phantom and the Angel are not spirits. Indeed, they are both the same man. A genius, very smart and talented in many different ways, but a man nonetheless. He is as much flesh and blood as you or I. Do you understand yet?"

"Yes," the girl replied, a smile spreading across her face. "So what do you call him: Angel or Phantom?"

"Neither. I call him by his name."

"Which is…"

"Never mind!" Erik said that this was the moment when he knew Christine would never betray him. "You will never know his name, Meg, unless he tells you it himself. That is his secret, not mine."

"Fine, fine. Where did he take you?"

"To his home, but—"

"Scandalous!" the girl whispered with glee, her teeth emerging as the corners of her mouth slid upwards.

"Meg! It's nothing like—"

"Is he in love with you?" she interrupted once again.

"Yes," Christine replied, looking intensely into the mirror. Erik said he felt as though she was looking directly at him, although he knew that was ridiculous. She didn't know he was there and furthermore could not possibly see through the glass as he could. "He loves me more than you could imagine."

"My God, Christine, are you having an affair?"

"No! Nothing of the sort! I admit, it might be an odd form of courtship, but it is not an affair, and, really, there is nothing scandalous about it. I doubt he does much in the conventional manner."

"Do you love him?"

"Well, I don't know—I don't know! My insides are all mixed up. I don't deserve his love, I know that! He needs someone greater than myself to love. The king should not worship his servant! …He is so tormented inside and he says that I will bring him solace, but… I don't think I can!"

In the last few minutes, Meg's face had changed dramatically from a playful, teasing child to that of a respectful and comforting friend. "How do you feel when you're with him?" (Christine could just imagine how Erik responded to that question!)

"How do I feel? Well, it can be like…Heaven or Hell, a nightmare or a dream. I guess that's really what he is: one big contradiction," Christine said, smiling slightly as her words as she placed her head in Meg's lap. "I guess, more than anything, I'm afraid to love him. I used to be terrified of him, but that passed. I mean, I am still afraid of his temper, but I'll just have to make sure not to make him angry… But to love him…it would make everything a thousand times more simple and difficult at the same time. See—another contradiction! Can one man fill someone with so much rapture and terror at the same time? He loves me; again, I don't know why, but nevertheless he does. And he is in as much pain as I am—no probably more so—all because he loves me." She paused before continuing. "When we sing together, I know the word 'eternity'. The world stops, time stops, and then we stop and I find myself thrown into a world full of questions and a time without answers. Does that make any sense? Am I going crazy?"

"No," Meg spoke finally, "you're not crazy. Confused, yes, but certainly not crazy." She paused. "When are you to return to him?"

"Soon. He will come for me here."

"Should I go?"

"Perhaps that is best," Christine replied, sitting back up. The two walked to the door and hugged. "Thank you for listening, Meg. I know it doesn't make much sense now but hopefully someday I can tell you everything."

"I understand. Goodbye, Christine. Come and see me when you return again."

Erik waited for a half an hour after Meg's departure to call her through the mirror. They did not speak much that evening; it was very late by the time they returned to the house on the lake and both of their minds were filled with thoughts of the conversation in the dressing room.

The next morning, however, they did talk. In fact, they argued. At the end of breakfast, Erik announced that Christine would go back into the world that evening. Christine's brow suddenly wrinkled in anger.

"How is it that you can say when I come and go, monsieur? Have I no say in my life? What if I don't wish to go?"

Erik laughed. "Do you wish to go?"

"No, I wish to stay. And I do not appreciate your laughter."

"By all means, mademoiselle, you are welcome to stay. My home is your home."

Christine threw up her hands in mock wonder. "Oh, the lord is letting me stay! Thank you, lord, thank you!"

"Christine, I'm amazed! Sarcasm! I didn't think you knew what that was! Which vile conservatory teacher taught you that?"

"You." They stared at each other fiercely for a few moments until Erik burst into laughter. Christine lost her mask of shock and began to laugh as well. Their laughter rang out loudly; it was the kind that takes over the mind and clouds the vision and it was because of this that Erik failed to notice Christine place her hand on top of his until after it had already happened. His laughter halted and he pulled his hand pack quickly. Christine quieted as her cheeks turned a lovely shad of pink.

"Do you really want to stay?" he asked.

"Yes," Christine replied without hesitation.

"Until when?"

"Oh, is it my turn to play God now?" she smiled. "Tomorrow. Rehearsals start and they'll be needing me."

"Yes, of course they will."

"I will come back through."

"Thank you," he said softly. His eyes found hers. "Shall we sing?"

"I'd like that very much," she replied.

Erik said that nothing drastic happened in the next few months, except that he and Christine grew closer to each other. He said that he could spend hours detailing even the most insignificant event but he wanted to get to their present situation as soon as possible. Anyway, a few months after the Masquerade Ball, Erik was reading aloud to Christine, which had become their custom. As always, he was in the parlor chair and Christine sat at his feet like a small child. He finished the story and closed the book and, as usual, the two remained in fixed silence for a few minutes. After these minutes had passed, Christine, as was the ritual, stood up and turned toward him to say goodnight. Except, on this night, she didn't speak. Erik looked up at her in question and met her eyes, which had a strange glow radiating from them.

"Christi—" he began.

"Erik, take off your mask," she said calmly.

"What? No!"

"Please," she said softly. "Please take off your mask. If you don't I will. I am not afraid." He did so slowly and looked up at her; she had not flinched. "Alright. Well then," she said and quickly leaned down to him and pressed her lips against his. He stood up in surprise, the book falling to the floor between them, but her lips stayed where they were. Eventually he relaxed and even began to kiss her back. Her arms climbed his chest and encircled his neck. When he hesitatingly put his hands on her waist, she pulled him closer with encouragement. She was the one to break the kiss and when she did they both burst into tears. She pressed her face into his neck and he felt her tears fall onto his skin and run under his shirt. "I love you, Erik," she said. "I'm sorry it took me so long and I'm sorry that I was so afraid. But I'm not afraid any more. I love you, so much." Somehow, although not until hours later, they each went to bed, and Erik slept soundly for the first night in a long time.

The next morning, Erik knocked on Christine's bedroom door. When he entered, she put down the brush she had been using and smiled at him. He walked briskly over to her and kissed her gently. "Christine," he asked, "will you marry me?"

She smiled. "Yes."

He laughed. "Right then. Well. Oh," he stammered, and then bent down to kiss her again. She broke the kiss with her laughter. Erik smiled down at her and opened his palm. A gold ring lay inside it. He took Christine's hand in his own and slid it on her finger. She giggled again and pulled him down into her embrace.

Christine sat straight up in bed. _This is useless_, she thought, falling hard back into the middle of the mattress. She tossed violently, her feet kicking the covers in every direction. She pressed the pillow over her head, in a meager attempt to smother her thoughts out of her head. The first part of his story, their strange courtship and engagement, was not what had upset her so. Well, it had made her upset when she thought of how these events had actually happened, and the fact that, without Raoul, it seemed like Erik and she would have been very happy together. They did not get married for another ten months after their engagement began. Christine wanted a traditional honeymoon, but she was in the middle of a long string of rehearsals, which proceeded the run of the new opera, after which they immediately launched a new run of _Faust_. So ten months later was the soonest time that Christine could take three weeks off. The management, it must be said, knew of her betrothal; she of course had to inform them of her leave months in advance. They would constantly ask her whom she was marrying. It became a sort of joke between the four of them (the two managers, Christine and the always unseen Erik), for whenever they would ask, she would always simply reply, "My fiancée," and presently leave their company.

The rest of the Opera workers were also very interested in Christine Daae's engagement. She had told no one who her fiancée was; only Meg and the good Madame Giry, who were of course invited to the wedding, knew the truth. The others could do nothing else but speculate. The chorus girls, who were obviously jealous of her and who still resented her for making such a swift leap from one of their ranks to that of the leading soprano of the Opera, started the rumor that her husband-to-be was of very low class and poor standing, which was why she kept his identity a secret. The crew believed the exact opposite; she was engaged to a wealthy and powerful man and had to keep their impending marriage a secret so that the press did not hear of the scandal. The ballet rats, however, who still remembered the rumors of Christine's relations with the Opera Ghost (For they remembered anything that had to do with the Ghost!), whispered that she was actually to marry the Phantom himself. She couldn't speak of it, though, because no one could know who the Ghost really was. Even so, each of them worked to become friends with Christine, in hope that she would confide in them her secrets.

A/N: How are you liking it so far? Tell me! Angst to come, though. Unfortunately, anything that could possibly spoil their happiness in the next chapter. BEWARE readers! But, about this chapter: the lovey-dovey parts aren't too wishy-washy and corny, right? I tried my hardest… Well, touch base with me, y'all! Tell me what you think!


	8. The Real Story Pt 2

Disclaimer: Don'tcha know it!

A/N: Apologies go out to everyone who told me to update quickly. You should know by now that I _never_ get anything done by the time I'm supposed to. Anyway, a few notes before we start. First of all, this is [obviously] the continuation of the last chapter. In that one, you all saw Happy Christine; now, here's where the Angst Christine comes in. First: if part of this sounds like a bad movie I am sorry. Also, I was on a Colin Firth-overload when I wrote it. So, if you sense any Colin Firth or Darcy (Mr. Or Mark) or hell, even Jack Worthing in Erik I greatly apologize. Secondly, the management takes a big role in this chapter. I always thought that the managers should not be taken seriously, since they are both the book and the play's comedic roles. Hopefully that comes through and hopefully you laugh a little. One should always write something funny before something terribly sad—I think I read that somewhere… Well, enjoy, please review because I don't know how people are going to feel about this chapter. 

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The Real Story, Part 2

Erik and Christine were married in May at a small chapel with only Meg, Mme. Giry and Nadir standing as witnesses. The wedding night was spent together at home (now officially _their_ home), and the next morning they departed for Italy. For the next two weeks they traveled the country in complete bliss, Rome, Florence, Milan, before returning to Paris, spending their final days of the honeymoon living only off each other and never leaving the house. Christine returned to the company of the Opera bearing a new name: Madame Ande, which, translated from Swedish, means Madame Ghost. However, no one in Paris would suspect that and they would have a terribly difficult time finding a man by the name of Monsieur Ande. They had gone through many possible names: Geist, Fantasma, Spoke and Valnad to name a few, but had settled on Ande because it gave no clear nationality. Erik took great pleasure in listening to the whisperings of gossips attempting to discern who Christine's husband. No one ever realized that the answer was obvious to the world. The managers were the worst, Erik had said, the smile in his eyes fading into a haunted frown. They were inquisitive, too inquisitive, like women (no offence, he had said in apology). They jumped at any mention of Christine's mysterious husband and questioned the Girys constantly. No answer satisfied them, but of course, no answer was correct. Christine and Erik eventually began to play with the entire company's curiosity. He sent her roses and presents after every performance and Christine would leave his attached notes of declarations of love where they could easily be found. They would let themselves be seen embracing in the corridor outside her dressing room and then spin into the room before anyone could come close enough to actually see who the person was.

Then, one month after Christine had returned to the Opera, their games suddenly stopped. They decided together that the time for foolish games was over and that they had to stop behaving like children. After all, it was not right for adults to act like children if they were expecting their own. Christine was pregnant; it had only just been confirmed by a doctor. The pair felt an indescribably joy that only first-time expecting parents know. Unfortunately, that joy was not long-lived for, two months later, Christine lost the baby.

Erik and Christine held each other and wept the entire night. Each not only mourned the loss but was also afraid that they would lose the other's love as well. Yet it only made them love each other stronger and more passionately. Christine consoled her husband as best as she could. Plenty of women had miscarriages, she had said; it was not uncommon at all. God, she believed, just didn't think that it was their time to have a child. Nor must He have thought it four months later for, one month after the discovery of Christine's new pregnancy, she once again had a miscarriage.

Their hope was bruised slightly, but their spirits remained strong. However, the physical side effects of the loss took a harsh toll on poor Christine. She developed a serious fever and was bed-ridden for two weeks, during which she fell in and out of consciousness. Erik knew how to care for her but did not care for himself well during those two weeks. He was so concerned for Christine that he could not think of doing anything but tending to her. Nothing else mattered except her; he had just lost another child and would not let his wife be taken away from him as well.

When the fever broke, Christine awoke with a new light in her eyes. "Erik," she said, smiling at her husband, who looked back at her through a thick curtain of tears, "next time will be different. God will not take another from us." Erik wanted to scream _how do you know_, but the look in Christine's eyes silenced him. She knew, she had utter confidence in it and Erik believed her. Health flew swiftly to her and she returned to the Opera within the week. And then, three months after her last miscarriage, she was pregnant again.

The first two months passed without incidence and, in the third month, Christine announced her pregnancy to the management, asking permission to leave as soon as she began to show. They granted her permission but, just as she was about to leave, M. Andre asked, "Madam Ande, will you be returning to us?"

Christine did not know how to answer. She and Erik had not yet discussed anything after the birth. That night during dinner she brought to subject to her husband. After some deliberation, they both agreed that Christine should wait and see how she felt after the birth, but that their unnatural lifestyle permitted her to do whatever she wanted. It was not as if Erik, like most men, attended work everyday and left his wife to tend to the children; Erik was almost always home and it was Christine who left for rehearsals and performances. The discussion was left open-ended: Christine would do whatever she wanted when the time came.

Yet that was not the only thing they discussed at this particular dinner; Erik brought up something that he had been thinking about since Christine's first pregnancy. "What would you think," he asked, "about moving?"

"Moving?" Christine echoed, confused. "Moving where?"

Erik shrugged. "Where ever."

"You mean…leave the house on the lake?"

Erik laughed. "Well, no, not abandon the place. I find that I've formed somewhat of an attachment to this odd housing structure. It has been good to me, and it has been rather romantic, if I might say so myself. And I don't think I could fit that bloody organ onto the boat, now, could I? But yes, I mean, live somewhere else. Somewhere above ground, not beneath an Opera House, somewhere where our child could grow up in as normal a way as possible."

"And what of the Opera Ghost? Will he just…retire?"

"Ah, the Phantom! Well, there really is nothing for him to do anymore. Your position as reigning diva is secure and I don't need the money. Well, to be quite candid, I never actually needed the money. We are very wealthy, Christine."

"You are very wealthy."

"We, we are very wealthy. Although you wouldn't know it by the fact that we live in a tomb, but—"

Christine giggled. "It's not a tomb."

"But, we have enough money to treat ourselves to the highest lifestyle for the rest of our lifetimes and the lifetimes of our children. Why not use that money to the fullest instead of just sitting on it?"

And so it was settled. They would move in time for the baby to be born. Within the week Erik had found an estate just outside of Paris, purchased it, and began to shop for the furnishings. When he showed Christine the house, she fell in love with it. They walked through it together, pointing out which room would be used for what and so on. Yet, unknown to both of them as they dreamed of forever several miles outside of Paris, their move had caused a great commotion within the city.

Erik had sent the managers a note from the Opera Ghost. It stated simply that he was retiring from haunting the Opera House, that he had found better corridors to stalk. He thanked the gentlemen for their assistance to him in running his Opera and wished them the best of luck upon trying to manage it alone. It ended with this post-script: _It is a pity, gentlemen, that your attempts in finding my identity were so feckless and ignoble. I would have enjoyed a challenge, but I am not angry, merely disappointed. But that is what one gets when one sets standards for children too high. Au Revoir!_ Erik did not know at the time, but his note had stirred up old feelings within the management. What took place following the reading of O.G.'s letter was described to Christine and Erik months later.

"I cannot believe it! Who does he think he is, calling us children?" Firmin shouted loudly, pacing back and forth across the office.

M. Andre tilted his chair back on its heels as he took another puff of his cigar. "Let it be, Firmin," he said. "He is leaving, do you remember that part of the letter? Let us wait out his last remaining weeks with us patiently. Then he will be gone and we won't have any more ghosts to worry about."

"No, not unless one of his friends hears of the vacancy!" He banged his fist upon his desk forcefully, causing Andre to let his chair slip from beneath him and fall to the floor. "Why weren't we ever able to find this character?"

"Well," Andre said, helping himself off the floor and picking up his chair, "he is a ghost. Ghosts, as I have been led to believe, can be either invisible or visible depending on their mood, have the ability to walk through walls and are, well, dead. It is very hard to find someone who possesses all these qualities."

"Well, damn it, we must at least try!"

"But no one knows who the Ghost is! No one has ever seen him or talked to him! He has given us no clues as to his identity at all! We only know that he has confiscated Box Five, likes the Opera, has some use for footstools, prefers Christine Ande, has horrible penmanship and—"

"Wait! What did you just say?"

"His penmanship? Well, look at this: such uneven, crooked letters! It is a wonder one can even read this piece of—"

"No, no! Before that! There's the key! Christine Ande!"

"She doesn't know anything about the Ghost. She's in her own little world with her unknown husband and her baby."

"Don't you remember all those rumors about her and the Ghost? That he came to her in her dressing room? He's the reason she's become as important in the company as she is! Without him, she would probably still be in the chorus. And isn't it odd that he resigns the week after Mme. Ande tells us that she may never be returning to l'Opera?"

"It could be just a coincidence…"

"I don't believe in coincidences!"

"Yes you do."

"No, I don't!"

"Yes you do! Why you told me just yesterday that it was such a coincidence that—"

"Forget what I said! I don't believe in them anymore. What I believe now is that Christine Ande is somehow connected to our O.G. and that she will lead us to him!"

Christine stayed at the Opera throughout her fourth month of pregnancy. Every so often, she felt as if M. Firmin was staring at her intensely, but thought nothing of it at the time. Twice during the course of that month she was called into the manager's office as they questioned her on any involvement she might have had with the Ghost. She denied everything, all the rumors she claimed were false, and Andre believed her. But Firmin didn't.

At the beginning for her fifth month, Christine found herself struggling to get into her costume. It was time for her to leave the Opera. A good time, too, for Erik and she were ready to move into their new house by the end of the month. So Christine went to the managers' office in order to officially announce her departure. She was let in to find only M. Firmin present.

"Good afternoon, Monsieur Firmin."

"Madame Ande, what can I do for you?"

"I have come to take my leave, as we discussed."

"Ah yes, of course, But you will wait for Monsieur Andre to return, won't you, madam? I'm sure he would be most displeased to have missed saying goodbye to you. He is meeting with Monsieur Reyer and should be back shortly. Please sit down, madam." M. Firmin walked over and shut the door as he guided Christine to her seat.

"Thank you most kindly."

"Now, madam, perhaps you will tell me, now that we are alone, everything that you know of the Opera Ghost."

Christine laughed. "Monsieur, I have already told you! I know nothing of the Ghost save the rumors I have heard from the ballet girls."

"He knew of you very well, and spoke of you quite often."

"Monsieur, I do not know all of my admirers."

"He was your first. Surely that means something to you. If not for him, you would still be a simple chorus girl."

"Just because he helped me doesn't mean I know him. He helped Meg also and she's never spoken to him either."

"And what of the conversations in your dressing room?"

"I have already denied those. I do not let strange men—or ghosts, for that matter—into my dressing room."

"Madame, I wish you would desist with your futile denials! They may convince my partner but they do not convince me!" He banged his fist against his desk.

Christine laughed in nervous fear. "Monsieur, I beg you—"

"Do you laugh at me?" Christine stood up as he approached her. "How dare you! You are just like him, mocking me. Now, tell me who he is!"

"No!" Christine pressed her hands against her cheek as the pain seared through her face. He had struck her. She looked at him for a moment in terror and then tried to reach the door. He got there first and pushed her fiercely into the corner of his desk. As she fell to the floor she let out a scream that only a true soprano could emit. Erik heard it in the cellars below and the cry was followed by a name: "Erik!" He ran as quickly as he could towards the source. 

"Erik?" Firmin repeated. "Is that the ghost's name?"

"No!" she cried out as he kicked her. "No, Erik is my husband."

"What is the ghost's name?" Christine lay silent except for her staggered breathing. "You won't tell me? Well then, tell me this: why do you call for your husband and not the ghost?"

"Because he's already here," a male voice said from behind Firmin. He turned to find an elbow in his face.

Erik stepped over the fallen manager and knelt down beside his wife. She fainted in his arms as he whispered her name. He wanted to get her home as fast as possible, but the quickest way was through her dressing room, and to get there he had to carry her though the hallway. When he picked her up, her head had already begun to bleed. Erik peered into the hallway and saw no one, so he stepped outside the office.

"Madame Ande!" M. Andre had suddenly turned the corner, catching sight of Erik and Christine's limp body. Erik was startled by his appearance and, without thinking, turned towards him, giving him a glance at the white mask. Andre gasped, in response to Erik, or Christine, or maybe both, then bowed his head and motioned with his hand for them to continue. Erik raced down the hall to Christine's dressing room without being noticed by anyone else.

Erik hurried her though the underground labyrinth and into the house, placing her in bed and immediately tending to the obvious cuts and bruises. When he could do no more and she still had not awoken, he stepped back and for the first time, truly let himself think. All of his instincts told him to go find Firmin and kill him for the harm he had inflicted upon Christine. But he fought the urge, the familiar tear of rage through his brain, with tight fists and clenched teach. Christine wouldn't like it, and he had to be here for her, when she woke up, if she woke up… Erik slammed his fist against the wall as he let out a moan of primitive rage; hatred boiled inside him, and he wanted nothing more than to kill the vile beast who did such a thing to his wife. He looked at her lying on the bed. Was it not for the still-consuming, discolored bruise upon her forehead. She would appear to be sleeping as soundly as an angel. If he went after Firmin he would betray Christine's trust, for he had told her once, long ago, that he would give it all up for her. And he could not betray her.

Erik fell asleep of emotional exhaustion at the foot of the bed. Later that night (or early the next morning, it was hard to tell) Erik awoke with a start, Christine's screams piercing through the air. He jumped up and his eyes found a trail of blood leading into the bathroom. The screams stopped suddenly as Erik heard a slight thud. He rushed into the bathroom, where his wife lay on the floor, unconscious once again. The floor was painted red, as was Christine's dress. But this blood had not come from her wounds; those he had tended, they were all bound tight. No, it was from somewhere else, and in that moment, Erik knew, and he leaned over and vomited. He hurried back into the bedroom, tears stinging his eyes, and threw back the bed covers. A large red stain greeted him. He bellowed in rage as he ripped the sheets from the mattress and threw them to the floor. Turning rapidly, he caught his reflection in Christine's vanity mirror. His hands, his shirt, and even his mask were covered in blood, Christine's blood, their baby's blood. He watched his eyes turn a horrid shade of red before he bolted out of the house, stopping only to collect his Punjab lasso, and then he climbed up, up into the very walls of the Opera House, finding the manager's office with blind ease.

He peered in through a spy hole; blood was every where in the office, but there was no sign of anyone. Erik was just about to leave to find M. Firmin, wherever he may be, when M. Andre entered the room, clad in blood himself. An officer followed.

"Thank you, monsieur, that is all we will need for now. You did a fine job." The officer said to Andre.

"Yes… thank you… you're welcome…" the manager replied with vague acknowledgement of the other man.

"Go home and get some rest, monsieur. It has been quite a night." To this, Andre did not respond, but merely nodded, and the young man left the office quietly. Erik saw his chance then and took it.

"Where is he?" his voice boomed around the room, seemingly from no actual location.

Firmin did not look surprised at the question. "O. G.," he said, calmly, "I have been expecting you for some time now. How is she?"

"Where is he?" Erik repeated. He did not want to talk; he just wanted to find Firmin.

"He is dead," was the stifled reply. Erik sat still, half of him confused and half still in rage. Andre turned around in a full circle before he said, "Please, monsieur, if flesh you are, come out and speak to me in person. I will not give you away."

Erik thought for a minute before taking him up on his offer. "Is there anyone in the hallway?"

A moment passed as Andre went to check. "No one, monsieur. Everyone has left; we are entirely alone."

"Good." Andre turned quickly to find his ghost in front of him. There was O. G., standing no more than six feet away, covered in blood and wearing a mask. The manager began to lose some of his nerve and began to tremble. He closed the door behind him and sat down, folding his hands to temper his shaking. Erik remained standing. "He is dead. So, did you kill him."

"Yes," Andre said, turning away from Erik. "I found him unconscious after I saw you in the hall, and waited until he woke up. He began to laugh and told me that he had found your weakness, and that he had a plan to catch you. He told me what he had… done to… and I chided him, and he began to get aggressive with me. I told him that he needed to stop and that I was going to call the police and inform them that he had just beaten a woman when he pulled a knife on me. He yelled that I stood in his way before absolute greatness, and then he attacked me. We struggled, but I managed to reach the gun that we kept in the drawer there and… well, you can assume the rest. Yes, he is dead, and I killed him, but it was self-defense… I assume that you are her husband."

"Yes," Erik said softly, his mind drifting. Firmin was dead, and not by his hand. He did not need to break his word to Christine after all… and now he had to get back to her. He had left her lying on the bathroom floor…

"You're secret is safe with me. I won't tell anyone. Is she…"

"I don't know. We lost the baby." Why was he saying this, he thought. He needed to leave, to get back to his wife, to—

"You probably need to go back to her now, but I would like to talk to you, if you wouldn't mind. I swear I won't tell a soul I've seen you."

"Yes, good, I must go now." Erik hurried to the door. "Thank you," he said softly, before disappearing into the hallway.

And that led them up to now basically. Christine recuperated, slowly, but she continued to fall into spells of unconsciousness. They wouldn't last long, usually no more than half an hour, but she usually hurt herself in the fall, often banging her head on the floor. Erik feared for her safety and never let her alone, so that he might catch her when she fainted. But still she hurt herself, for her spells came on quickly and she usually did not have enough notice to shout or even gasp a warning.

Both their spirits were broken from that final loss of their child. They slept on opposite sides of the bed, each afraid to touch the other. He only kissed her on the forehead now, and holding hands was as close as they got to intimacy. Only when they sang did their passion return, and eventually, Christine convinced Erik to let her return to the Opera and he agreed, but only with the provision that he be in a position to be with her at every moment. So, he spoke with Andre, with whom he had been communicating with over the past two months. Andre offered Erik a managerial position, as he knew so much about the Opera already and was in need of a new partner, and Erik accepted. Slowly they introduced him to the Opera staff as Erik Ande, Christine's husband and the new manager, who wore a mask to hide old war wounds. Their plan worked, and the two settled semi-happily back into the lifestyle of the Opera, when Christine fainted on opening night. That was where Christine's memory began, and that was where Erik's story stopped. 

A/N: Like it? Hate it? Sorry again that it took so long. But I'm out of school now (out of HIGH SCHOOL! NO MORE!) so I'll have more time—and more energy—to work on it. So, for now, review! And, sorry, next chapter it's back to…_Raoul_…


	9. Hope

Disclaimer: Yadda-yadda-yadda. I don't own Christine, Erik or Raoul, but I do own Marguerite and Frederick. 

A/N: I'm baaaaaaaaaaaaackk! Long time, no read, huh? Well, I'm settled in New York now (go NYU!) and I just set up my computer today, so I used this opportunity to update! Yay! This chapter is short, I know, but I don't really like writing the Raoul-part as much as you all don't like reading it. I love Marguerite and Christine's relationship, though, and you'll be seeing more of that, so hopefully you do too! Read on!

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Hope

Christine rolled over and opened her eyes. Raoul lay next to her, unconscious in sleep, and completely unaware of the turmoil that coursed through his wife's body. For days she hadn't slept for more than an hour at a time. If she opened her eyes and founder herself in Erik's house, she would shut her eyes tightly until she awoke in her own home. Raoul had no idea that, for almost two weeks, Christine had lain awake with only her thoughts for company as he slept peacefully by her side. She hadn't seen Erik since he had described the history of her dream-life. It wasn't as if she didn't want to see him--she did! She missed their talks, their singing lessons, the look in his eyes that could comfort her even if she was about to be executed…. She just had no idea what to say to him. How could she ask questions about such an awful past which hurt him to remember? But how could she carry on without recognizing it? So she stayed in her own world and went without sleep.

The clock in the hall chimed the hour and Christine stepped out of bed. Even though she had slept very little, she was considerably energetic this morning; it was Saturday. Raoul was going hunting with Frederick, who was back from Paris, and Christine and Marguerite would have the entire afternoon to themselves. Christine was eager to find out if Marguerite had heard back from Meg. With everyday she did not see Erik in the dream, she grew more anxious to know his real fate. He was her only addiction; she had weaned herself off of him once, but he had entered her life again, and this time she did not think she would be able to break the bond. She had constant visions of fleeing to Paris and running into Erik's open arms, declaring her unending love for him. But Raoul kept her here. She still loved him, and her feelings for him would never change, but it wasn't fair to him that she harbored an even greater love for Erik. That is why she had to know--if Erik was dead then she could go back to the way her life was before the dream, repressing all thoughts of Erik and devoting her energy entirely toward Raoul. But if he was alive… Well, Christine didn't know what she would do. Even though she loved Raoul, she didn't want to live in a world anymore where both she and Erik were alive and not together. It was just too heartbreaking.

A few hours later, Christine and Marguerite kissed their husbands goodbye and wished them a safe hunting trip. Once the men had left, Marguerite grabbed Christine's hand and hurried her into the parlor.

"Did it come?" Christine asked, although she already knew the answer from her friend's demeanor. Marguerite didn't reply; she just pulled an envelope out of a desk and handed it to her, smiling. Christine took it slowly and sat on the sofa. She let her fingers memorize the feel of the paper envelope and trace the curves of the seal. This is what she had been waiting for; the course of her future depended on what was written in this letter. Christine felt slightly short of breath and while her brain mocked her for it, he heart understood.

"Well," Marguerite finally said, interrupting her concentration, "aren't you going to open it? It arrived two days ago and I've been in utter agony waiting to know what it said!" Christine laughed at her frankness and tore open the envelope.

__

My dearest Christine,

I sit here full of happiness that I have received word of you after all this time. My dear, dear Christine, how are you? I have missed you more than you could imagine! The Opera has been so tragically mundane without you here. And my friendships with the other girls cannot compare at all to the friendship I shared with you.

Your letter only enhances my otherwise happy lifestyle, as mundane as if may be. I am engaged presently to a M. Charles Adams, an American novelist who has moved to Paris, and who delights in the fact that I am a dancer and never wants me to stop! We are getting married next month and, oh, I would be absolutely delighted if you could attend! I would offer you a part in the wedding party, but it wouldn't be right as you are already married and (as Mama points out everyday) I have handfuls of unmarried cousins!

Please forgive my ranting, Christine, in my excitement I had almost forgotten the reason for your letter. We speak little of the Opera Ghost nowadays, he is no longer actively frightening the staff and patrons. However, I know for a fact that he is still alive--or dead… He is a ghost, isn't he? He still comes to the Opera and Mama is still the intermediate between him and the managers. Is this what you wanted to know? I hope I have helped you in some way. Please keep in touch, my address is enclosed.

All my love,

Meg

PS: Is you friend Marguerite Lenfent the wife of M. Frederick Lenfent? If so, my Charley knows him well and sends his greetings.

The letter fell to the floor gracefully, like a dancer. As it fell, Christine's hand flew to her mouth. "Alive…" she whispered. "I hadn't hoped… Marguerite, I hadn't thought! What am I to do? What am I to do?" Her voice grew louder and more intense with every passing word. "He's alive! Oh, God, Marguerite, I have to leave! But Raoul! Oh, what am I to do?"

"Christine!" her friend yelled, snapping her out of her thoughts. "Stop playing the Opera character and be you! You know what to do--you have always known what to do. You are only succeeding in wasting valuable energy."

Christine nodded. She did know what to do; it was obvious. There really was no choice in the matter. "When will you leave?" Marguerite asked.

"As soon as possible. Meg has provided me with a wonderful excuse. Her wedding is next month--Raoul wouldn't deny my attending the wedding of my best friend. My best friend before you of course."

"He won't insist on accompanying you?"

"He won't be able to get away from work. But you're right--he will want someone to travel with me--perhaps you could, Marguerite! Meg did say that her fiancée knows Frederick!"

"More than knows, actually," her friend replied. "We were invited to their wedding just last week. I hadn't placed Margaret Giry as your friend Meg. We are to go to Paris in three weeks, and if Raoul would allow you to, I'm sure Frederick wouldn't mind escorting you there as well."

"Oh, Marguerite! Do you… Will you…" In her excitement, her thoughts failed to form into coherent words when they reached her mouth. This was what she had been waiting for, and now she couldn't even voice her own feelings: her joys and her fears and…everything! Erik was alive, alive and still at the Opera, waiting for her! 

"Could I, should I--of course!" she joked, smiling at her astounded friend. Christine pressed her palm into Marguerite's. Their eyes communicated the intense longing she felt which couldn't be voiced. Erik had taught her to use her voice for every expression except for this one, for this came from a burrow deep in her soul which only now had found its way to the light. The immediate was at hand, however, and the friends had to deal with the present issue first. Christine could worry about what she would say to Erik later; for now she had to concentrate on how to convince Raoul to let her go to Paris without him.

The hours passed as Christine and Marguerite debated over the best way to approach their husbands on the subject. Manipulation was a skill that, should a wife ever want to be happy, a woman must require and practice to great extent. Their plan solidified with each passing hour, until they had a plan to which no husband could object. Unfortunately, Raoul was not an ordinary husband; he had been brought up as an aristocrat and aristocrats were used to getting what they wanted.

"No," was his first response to their case, "absolutely not. What would ever compel you to think that I would allow this? Should that madman even suspect you of being in the city, especially without my presence, what would stop him from kidnapping you once again."

"Raoul," Christine said calmly, for she had expected his initial rejection. "Erik is dead. You must know that. He was almost upon his deathbed as we left him. And if by some small chance that he was still alive, I will not be anywhere near the Paris Opera House. He will never see me, nor know of my presence in the city--that is, if he is even alive, which we know to be untrue. Ghosts cannot kidnap."

"Was he not a ghost before?"

"No, he wasn't. He was flesh and blood, just as you and I am and you know that quite well. Raoul, dear, Meg is one of my oldest friends, second only to you, of course. She was at our wedding; should I not extend the same courtesy and be at hers?" Raoul's eyes fell down; she knew that her words were getting through to him. "Besides," she continued, "I won't be alone there. Marguerite will be with me wherever I go."

"That's right," Marguerite said, coming to her friend's defense. "I will guard her, Raoul; no harm will come to your treasured friend under my watch, I assure you." A glance at her husband sent Frederick jumping to her aid as well.

"Of course she will go nowhere unescorted! My wife and I will see to that."

Raoul could see that he could not win this argument and he gave a shallow shrug. "Very well," he sighed, "if you insist. But I want you to be very careful, Christine."

"Yes, of course," Christine said, beaming. "Oh, Raoul!" she cried as she threw her arms around her husband, embracing him in a way she had never embraced him before.

That night, Raoul observed that Christine slept soundly.

A/N: Like it or hate it? I'll admit, it's not the strongest chapter I've written, but it's a good segue into what Christine is feeling for the end of the story. That's right, the end. The story is almost over! So, please review, it will give me a bigger push to upload the rest ;) Love y'all! Glad to be back!


	10. An Evening Out

Disclaimer: If you still have to ask if I own the _Phantom _characters, something's wrong with you. I DO, however, own another new character who appears in this chapter, Charles Adams, Meg's fiancée. 

A/N: I know, I know… no update, yeah, yeah, yeah. But I'm a drama major--Tisch kids have a thousand times more work to do than anyone else at NYU (except maybe Stern… if you know NYU, you know what I mean). It's hard to find enough time to watch _Angel_ once a week let alone write! There's rehearsals until one AM, papers, lines to memorize, voice and speech warm-ups… Okay, I'll stop talking about this. It's irrelevant. 

On a different note, I was re-reading some of the reviews to this story, and I noticed one that I don't think I ever acknowledged. Someone asked awhile ago, "Christine's a blonde?" The answer is, yes. See, here's my logic. I really try to have my phiction stem off of the original novel. Now, this story is kind of a blend between the original novel, the musical and _Phantom_ by Susan Kay. I felt like I didn't have enough elements of the original novel, what with Erik wearing the half-mask, the presence of Nadir, and the manager's names being a few of the major elements I took from the other sources. So I added a few little elements of the original novel to my story. Christine's hair color, for instance, is blonde in the book. Now I, along with most people, do envision Christine as a brunette just because of the musical, but, in fact, she was a blonde, so I wrote that into the story as a reference to the original novel. Make sense? 

If you have any other questions about the story (not 'what's going to happen next' because I can't explain that J but more along the lines of 'so, wait, I'm still confused about what exactly happened in chapter 8') because I know that some people are confused by it, leave a question in the review or email me your question and I'll get back to you (I'm much better responding to my emails than I am updating!). If you're a confused about what the whole dual-world thing is and how that will work out, just sit back and wait. We're almost there.

****

Chapter Ten

An Evening Out

The joy within her breast exploded as Christine opened her eyes and found herself in Erik's house once again. She flung herself off the bed and threw herself towards the door. Christine had no idea what she was going to say to Erik, but she knew she had to see him now. Ecstasy flowed through her veins as she turned the doorknob, anxious to see her husband. Anxious though she was, she was still startled to see the tall, dark figure on the other side of the threshold as the door swung open. She let out a small scream of surprise and the man on the other side of the door stepped back in an uncharacteristic moment of shock. Christine's gasp melted into laughter, joyous, infectious laughter. Erik stared at her for a moment, confused, but eventually he began to laugh as well. Christine lowered herself to the floor, fully giving in to gravity and Erik sat down next to her. She looked at him, tears in her eyes from laughing so hard, and took his hand in hers. They remained there for a few more moments, their chests moving sharply up and down, punching out the beautiful, harmonious sound of their joy.

Eventually, the sound died down and they sat together, joined by their hands, in silence. "I had a feeling you would be awake," Erik said, his eyes expressing both happiness and concern.

"Yes," Christine replied, once again not sure what exactly to say. How should she approach the fact that she had avoided seeing him for a month?

"I'm glad you're awake." Erik led their hands towards his body and intertwines their fingers slowly. "You slept for a month," he continued, saying (of course) the exact thing that Christine didn't want him to.

"Yes," she repeated. "But… I'm not sleeping now."

Erik's mouth turned up in a slight smile. "That's true. Do you…"

"Remember?" she finished. "no. But…I've accepted. And I missed you."

Erik's smile widened. "I missed you as well." He stood up and pulled his wife to her feet. "Well, my dear, let us have no more talk of sad things today. You are awake, you look well, you seem fine--"

"I feel wonderful, Erik! A month of rest must do some good!"

"Well in that case," he continued, a bubble of laughter escaping from between his lips, "we must celebrate! Anything in the world, Christine. You name it, I'll make it happen!"

"What do I need from the world? I need nothing more than what's in this very house," she said, broadening her smile. "But I would like to visit the Opera--what time is it? What day is it? Is there a show on now?"

Erik laughed. "It's Friday, about four o'clock in the afternoon. There is plenty of time to have a nice dinner--breakfast in your case--and be seated in Box Five long before the curtain goes up at eight."

"Erik!" Christine sighed gleefully, pressing her hands together. "I'm sure we'll have a wonderful night." He took her by the shoulders and kissed her forehead.

"Now, my dear, you must change into your Opera clothes while I prepare us a marvelous feast." He turned to leave the bedroom.

"Erik--" Christine called to him, and he looked back. "I'm sorry to have worried you." His eyes glittered from beneath the mask as the right side of his face moved upwards in a soft smile..

"Don't be," he replied. "Suddenly I'm not worried anymore."

A few hours later, Christine and Erik were standing in a line (yes, a line--could you believe it!) to congratulate Meg after the Opera. It had been a wonderful show--Christine's understudy had pulled off her part splendidly (although Erik did not think so. "I tried to persuade M. Reyer to let me give her private lessons, but he said 'No, no! Madame has never missed a show." Shows how much he knows. Another year or two in the conservatory would've suited her well, horrid as that school may be."). Meg's dancing seemed especially superb tonight, perhaps because she was dancing for her fiancée. Christine assumed that was who the man next to Meg was. Their arms were linked quite comfortably and Meg kept leaning her head into his shoulder. Yes, it was undoubtedly her fiancée--what was his name again? Charles something--the American writer. Ah, and he looked the part, too. His short blonde hair seemed to have been taught to look unkempt, a lesson only Americans were suited to teach. His eyes were a soft blue and so large they seemed to overtake his face. On his lips he wore a bright, naïve smile that could only belong to a fool or someone in love. Christine liked him already.

As the young man with the childish grin conversed with a couple in the front of the line, Meg's attention wandered and she caught Christine's eye. The little ballerina let out a high-pitched yell (which startled her companion) and rushed down the line.

"Christine!" she yelled, and threw her arms around her friend's neck. "Oh, I have been so worried! I knew you were sick--Forgive me for not coming to visit you, but I did not want to disturb--Oh, but you look so good! Are you feeling better? Charley? Charley, come quick! Look who has risen from the depths to see us! Charley!"

He was already at her side by the last call of his name. "Yes, darling, I'm here." He turned to Christine. "Christine," he said, kissing her hand, "how nice to see that you are well again. I hope a spectacular return to the stage is being planned as we speak." Christine noted how they were on a first-name basis as he then shook Erik's hand. "Bonjour, Erik, how goes everything?"

"Very well, Charles, thank you. And you?"

"Wonderful. A little tired," he added, turning toward his fiancée with a smile, "but still wonderful."

"We have been in a non-stop whirlwind of parties and dinners with extended family--but of course it has all been enjoyable, hasn't it, darling?" Meg asked.

"Any time I get to spend with you is more than enjoyable, my little girl," Charles (M. Adams, that was his name!) replies, bringing her hand slowly to his lips. The betrothed couple embraced with their eyes as they could not in public. Erik looked at Christine and raised his eyebrow as his mouth twitched uncontrollably into a hidden smile. Christine held her laughter back but touched his arm gently in relation.

"Well, Charley," Meg said, "we really do have to get back to this line of well-wishers here." She turned her attention to Erik and Christine. "May we look forward to spending more time with you tonight? Perhaps a late dessert?"

"Well…" Christine hesitated and turned towards Erik. He caught her look and finished her thought for her.

"Christine has only very recently made her convalescence and it would perhaps not be the best time for her to take a late night out." Meg's face fell and she opened her mouth to speak out in protest, but her fiancée interceded.

"Yes, that makes sense," Charles said, and then turned to Meg. "My dear, we can see them later. Tonight is not the end of all nights."

The four parted ways, Meg and Charles back to the front of their reception line and Erik and Christine to their home underground. They took the long route home, by way of the mirror in Christine's dressing room. The couple walked in pleasant silence, each consumed by their own thoughts. Christine's heart thumped powerfully. She wanted so badly to tell Erik what was on her mind, and what was on her mind was the utter and simple fact that whatever hesitation she had before had vanished and all that remained now was the truest love she had ever felt. If she had known love for Raoul, it wasn't like this. If she had loved Erik before, it was only a preview to the cloak of emotion she felt now which embraced every part of her body and soul. She wanted to tell him, but in silence she found comfort. It is not easy to be completely quiet with someone; had she been with Raoul it would have been awkward and both of then would've been struggling to find something to say quickly. Yet with Erik there was the appreciation and mutual respect of each other's private thoughts. The feel of his arm through her gloved hand, resting in his crooked arm, the slight sound of fabrics rubbing against each other as he walked, and the tender glances he gave her were more than enough to make her understand that words weren't necessary right now.

They didn't speak until they were once again in the house and Erik said, extending his hand to Christine, "Your cloak." She took it off, handed it to him and followed him as he entered their room to hang it up. 

"It really was a lovely performance," Christine said, opening the discussion. It was not the subject that she wanted to talk about, but was as good a place as any to start.

"Yes," Erik replied, facing the wardrobe and taking off his own cloak. "It would have been better if you were in it," he continued, turning to give her a smile, "but it was just fine."

"What were you thinking of as we walked back here?" she asked, with a playful smirk on her face. She peeled her gloves off her hands and placed them in their drawer.

He laughed. "What I always think about. You."

Tilting her head slightly upwards, she replied, "Surely you can't be always thinking of me, monsieur." He walked over to her and placed both of his hands on her arms.

"More often than many would think possible." He kissed her on her forehead. Their eyes met and she tried to tell him without embarrassing words exactly what she wanted from him. She was beginning to lean forward into him when he spoke again, halting her efforts. "But now is not the time to talk--you must be exhausted after being out for so long. I will see you tomorrow morning. Goodnight, my dear." He turned away from her and walked toward the door. 

"Erik," Christine called quickly. When he faced her, she pulled her hair over one shoulder and turned her back to him. "Will you help me out of my dress?"

With a knowing smile on his lips, he walked forward to her once again and began unbuttoning her dress. Leaning forward, he said, with a laugh, "I do believe you are trying to seduce me, madam."

She turned quickly to look into his eyes once again and, within half a second, the mask was off in her hand and their lips pressed together feverishly. Her arms encircled his neck and the fingers of her right hand searched through his hair as his hands pressed her into him. Their hearts beat against each other, each soaring with the passion that filled them. It was one of those moment where the brain stops thinking completely and nothing exists other than the sense of touch.

Of course, moments cannot last forever, and Erik's brain, being the stronger one, began reasoning again first. He pulled away quickly and, with his breath slightly too heavy, said, "My dear, do you not feel that you have exerted yourself far too much already tonight?"

Christine knew what she was doing, though, and continued to flirt without holding anything back. "Surely you do not think me spent yet, Erik?" Erik, however, was not playing any longer. He smiled sadly at her and gently took his mask back from her.

"Christine, I… cannot… I--" Knowing he was about to reject her, she interrupted him with a mixture of stubbornness and desperate passion.

"Erik, do not let me sleep alone in our bed one more night!" She placed her hands on his face and brought her cheek to his. "You must know how much I love you, how much I've missed you… I wanted to show you, to prove--"

"There's nothing you need to prove to me, Christine."

"It's not just that! I _need_ you. I need you there, with me. If nothing else, to just hold me. I don't want to be lonely, as I am without you."

He hesitated, looking deeply at her. Her words had obviously affected him, but he was afraid, that was all evident. Their past had repeated itself more than once and he would do anything to prevent it from happening again.

"Alright," he whispered to her. "But, Christine… you know why… why I just cannot--"

"Yes, I do. I understand. But, Erik, there's no need to be afraid. I am not." He kissed her again, this time less passionately but hardly with less feeling behind it. Not another word was needed to be spoken as they dressed in their bed clothes, nor as they got into bed. That night, Christine fell asleep peacefully in Erik's arms for the first time she could remember and Erik fell asleep holding her as he hadn't done in what felt like an eternity.

A/N: So, you like it? You hate it? If you couldn't tell, I kinda got a little sick of having Christine not DOING anything, just lying in bed and thinking. So, I changed that. She's allowed some fun, playfulness, sexuality, right? They _are_ married. For a couple lines though, I just kept thinking about Blanche DuBois (_Streetcar Named Desire_, if you don't know-go read it!) and I definitely didn't want that! So… please review. As always, I am sorry for the delay--I try, I do! I just get… stuck…sometimes. You all know how it is, right? 


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